


More Human than Human

by Wagontrain



Series: Steel Against Steel [3]
Category: Fallout 3, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Dark, F/F, F/M, Family, Gen, The Codex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:21:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wagontrain/pseuds/Wagontrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Family, duty, love and the Vault are important above all else...and that never changes.</p><p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/17186">Messiah in Absentia</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Human than Human

Elder Lyons opened her eyes in darkness.

She lay on her bunk a long while, hoping she could pretend to be asleep so well as to fool herself and escape a bit longer. It was futile and she knew it. She placed her feet on the floor and rose carefully, padding through the blackness to the light switch. She winced as the overhead glare blinded her for a moment. Brotherhood living spaces were generally Spartan, but her quarters were almost overwhelming in their emptiness. It was the same set of rooms her father had claimed when they’d arrived in the Capital Wasteland, though she’d stripped away his personal effects and replaced them with nothing of her own.

 _Up and moving, soldier._ Sarah removed her sleepwear and folded each item neatly, putting them away in their drawer. She dressed quickly, finishing by pulling on the blue elder robe. Her elevation to elder made sense, despite the bad taste it left in her mouth. In the tumultuous days following the assassination of her father and Elder McNamara, the Brotherhood threatened to tear itself apart. It seemed that Veronica’s agitating had thoroughly soured the Mojave members on anything relating to progressivism, and Casdin’s Outcasts were obviously hostile to change. They had nearly come to open civil war before Sarah stepped in. She changed the discussion from Capital Wastelands chapter versus Outcasts versus Mojave chapter to Traditional versus Iconoclast. While many of the Capital Wasteland members supported the Lyons Doctrine, they were also still loyal to the Codex. It was tradition that fused the fractious sects together, and at the small cost of a dozen or so heresy trials.

As the situation settled, the question of leadership emerged. Hardin was popular enough with the Mojave chapter, but unknown to the Capital members. Casdin, for his part, burned too many bridges in becoming an Outcast to be taken seriously as a leader. Like the Capital chapter before them, the Brotherhood Traditionalists needed a Lyons to lead them.

So, Sarah accepted the blue robes. _Not worthy of them, not ready for them, but no one will say I shirked my duty._ She examined herself in the mirror. The bags under her eyes at least provided some color to her pallid complexion, and silver hid amongst the golden strands of her hair. _I’m still alive. Vanity is a simple concession for that._

The _silent emptiness_ of her quarters wore at her. Not that she’d had a lack of suitors; Knight Pek in particular had been relentlessly persistent, at least until she’d assigned him to the detachment at Adams Air Force Base. Her position was enough to keep the rest away. An elder must be aloof and concerned with the chapter before all else. _Rank hath its privileges,_ she thought wryly. It spared her from the scrutiny as to why she, a woman of forty, had not yet followed through with her duty to propagate the Brotherhood. 

Others certainly weren’t shy about doing their part. The merging of the three Brotherhood sects had led to several happy unions; even Melissa Watkins of the Mojave chapter, insufferable as she was, married Vargas and recently had a daughter. As elder it had been Sarah’s duty and honor to welcome the baby into the Brotherhood, even if she’d be damned if she could remember the child’s name now.

 _Veronica. Irregular and irreverent._ Sarah had lied to herself for a time, pretending that the other woman was nothing more than a banished heretic. But if that were the case, she wouldn’t prey on Sarah’s mind. Eventually, she quietly acknowledged to herself that what she felt for Veronica was love. _Infatuation,_ she corrected herself angrily. _Stupid, childish obsession. She couldn’t keep to herself enough to avoid attracting attention, and she didn’t even spare me a look over her shoulder as she ran. If she wasn’t so damned arrogant, she could be here now. God, is this how Veronica felt when that Christine woman left?_ She scowled. _Obsessing about how her ex-girlfriend felt probably isn’t any healthier._

Sarah shook herself from her reverie. _Might-have-beens are nothing more than goldbricking. Keep moving._

She pulled her hair into a tight bun and left her quarters. With only a few dozen paladins, scribes and initiates stationed at the Citadel, it held a similar empty quiet as Lyons’ quarters. She’d deployed their forces across the Wasteland, defending and preserving different sites of technology. Even the three hundred paladins and scribes at her disposal were spread thin, however.

She entered Operations, making her way down to the lower level. Casdin and Hardin were already awake, and nodded to her respectfully as she approached. “Elder Lyons,” Casdin rumbled. “You’re up early.”

“Much to be done,” she answered blithely. “Report.”

Hardin answered. “Quiet for the time being, ma’am. The garrison at Project Purity reports that they are getting close to understanding how the mechanism works. There have been some difficulties, but they should have it back on-line by early next year.”

“Good,” Lyons said. “Maybe that will quiet Dr. Li.” The Rivet City scientist had been a relentlessly shrill nuisance ever since the Brotherhood laid claim to Purity. Lyons had explained to her, with far more patience than she credited herself with, that the Brotherhood had to partially disassemble the device in order to understand how it worked. Dr. Li refused to see reason, yammering on about the people in the Wasteland needing fresh water. Lyons had decided that the Wastelanders had managed well enough before Purity came online, and that they would manage well enough without it for two or three years it took to understand it. Rivet City security had disagreed, but they proved to be little impediment against a squad of Brotherhood paladins.

She stood before the enormous region map mounted on the wall, examining each icon. “What’s the word from Adams AFB?” she asked.

“The Wanderer did a thorough job, all those years ago. There’s not much left of the Enclave crawler base, but our teams are scavenging equipment. Found a complete set of advanced power armor mark II.”

Lyons nodded. “Have it shipped back to the Citadel. We’ll repaint it and press it into service.” She examined the map. “Purity, Adams AFB, Tenpenny Tower, Oasis, Jackson’s Sanctuary, the Museum of Technology…we’ve succeeded, gentlemen. We’ve fulfilled the Brotherhood’s mandate to preserve technology in the Capital Wasteland. I think it’s time to begin expanding our operations.”

“There’s still one last Vault to clear,” Casdin reminded her.

 _Oh, not again._ Lyons closed her eyes and spoke in a tone weary from repetition. “Vault 101 doesn’t have anything we haven’t already acquired from the other Vaults.”

“There might be,” Casdin pressed.

“I’ve been there. There isn’t.” The man’s jaw set. He didn’t like leaving any possible technology unsecured. He also knew full well that Lyons’ feigned apathy regarding Vault 101 had nothing to do with that technology.

“There’s a lot we could find to the south,” Hardin mused. “The Norfolk Naval Base, along the Chesapeake Bay.”

 _And there’s the third member of our triumvirate._ Lyons suppressed a smile _Hardin doesn’t care enough to force the point with me, and Casdin doesn’t have the leverage without his support._ “According to the Citadel’s records, the naval base was fully supported when the bombs fell. It’s been a lot of time since then, but if even a fraction of the equipment remains there it’ll be a treasure trove.”

“I can select a squad of paladins to scout the region,” Hardin nodded.

“Insufficient,” Lyons replied. “If we have designs on the naval base, we have to assume that the Enclave does too.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I propose that we leave a garrison of a hundred to hold the Citadel and other sites in the Capital Wasteland, and take the other two hundred and quest south.”

“Paladins, scribes, everyone?” Casdin asked. “That’s not just an expedition. You’re planning on entrenching.”

“The Capital Wasteland is exhausted,” Lyons replied. “It’s time to expand into new areas.”

Hardin nodded agreeably, and Casdin shrugged. _Good enough._ “Contact the quartermaster. Have her make a full accounting…” her voice trailed off as she noticed Stepford enter Operations with a man she didn’t recognize. “Who is that?”

Casdin and Hardin looked, and Casdin glowered. “Stepford brought home some wildlife.”

Stepford and the other man descended the stairs. “You have a guest,” Lyons commented drily as they approached. 

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.” Stepford looked distinctly unapologetic. “This is Armitage. He and I wanted to talk with you.”

“We’re not having the same damned argument every week, knight. You need to get through your head that the Brotherhood is not a democracy,” Casdin snapped. “The old man recruited you out of the Wastes, and I am starting to think you’d be better off back there.”

“I understand that you’re trying to do what you see as best for the Brotherhood, Elder Lyons,” Armitage said. “You need to understand that there are larger factors at play here.”

“Really now,” Lyons said. “Why don’t you explain to me what is more important than fulfilling our duty?”

“There is a faction to the north, in the Eastern Commonwealth. A government, called the Keystone. They are consumers. Violent, expansionistic. We have heard that they have set their sights on the Capital Wasteland.”

“If they want to test our steel, they’re more than welcome to try,” Hardin said.

“The Brotherhood alone will be insufficient to repel them,” Stepford explained. “One company of their special forces kept you occupied for years. Killed two elders before you finally stamped them out. How well do you think you’ll fair against several Keystone battalions? They’re tied up in the ‘Burgh for the time being, but it won’t take them too much longer to resolve that particular situation.”

“In order to survive and remain free, the Capital Wasteland needs to pull together,” Armitage stated. “Rivet City, Megaton, Canterbury Commons, and the Vault all have much to offer to a common defense.”

“We’ve heard that sort of talk before,” Lyons intoned. “From Jackson Woodrow.”

“I’m sure you’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how to ‘make the world a better place,’” Casdin approached Armitage, closing right into the other man’s face. “The Brotherhood knows its mission. Let your ‘Keystone’ come. Hell, bring whoever your masters are too. The Brotherhood will always prevail over Wasteland trash.”

Armitage leaned to the side, to look past him at Lyons. “Is that your final word on the matter, Elder Lyons?”

Lyons shook her head. “I haven’t heard anything that suggests we should change our course.” 

Stepford and Armitage shared a look. “We tried.”

“She can’t say we didn’t,” Armitage agreed. He lashed out faster than the eye could track, striking Casdin’s chest and sending him tumbling back along the floor. Stepford grabbed Hardin’s arm and _squeezed,_ and Lyons heard the bones of his forearms crack under the grip. 

“Sorry, sir,” Stepford said as Hardin fell away with a cry.

 _What the hell is this?_ Lyons thought desperately as Armitage turned to her. He lunged for her with unimaginable quickness, but luck was with her and his strike only crushed the bone in her upper arm rather than her ribs and heart. _What are they?_ she thought, reeling in pain. _We need help. Help in Goddamn power armor!_ Clutching her arm to her side, she turned and _ran,_ cursing herself as she abandoned Casdin and Hardin to their fate.

*

Arthur nestled the butt of his rifle against the crook of his shoulder. Closing one eye, he aligned his target between the iron sights mounted along the length of the barrel. This was it. The one shot that would put an end to all the trouble, all the discord the Brotherhood had faced over the past years. He squeezed the trigger.

At the far end of the room, a beer bottle exploded.

“It’s a hit,” Arthur muttered. Seared shards of glass skittered across the floor of the make-shift gun range. Amata had mentioned that the room had been used by some childhood friend to practice target shooting. The room served well enough for such basic activities, but compared to the range in the Citadel’s bailey it was a joke. A poorly-lit, short little joke.

Arthur ejected the microfusion cell from his rifle. He knew that he shouldn’t be wasting them; he only had what he and Veronica had brought with them when they’d returned to the Vault, and Veronica had trouble reliably recharging them. One the one hand, he knew he always had to be ready to combat any threat. But at the same time, the very act of practicing his shooting depleted his store of ammunition.

 _Not that it matters anyway._ There were no threats in the Vault. No super mutants or Enclave or anyone else could penetrate the front door. He was a soldier constantly preparing for a battle that wasn’t ever going to happen. Amata wouldn’t allow it.

Arthur disassembled the rifle, checking each component for wear before putting it back together. _The problem with the Vaulties,_ he decided, _is complacency. None of them aspire to anything other than doing what their parents did. Hell, before the Lone Wanderer left they just sat here for two hundred years._ It wasn’t that the Vaulties didn’t have honor. They did, but it was bizarre sort. 

After returning from the disastrous meeting, Amata had locked down the Vault. She and Arthur argued about it for days, with a two-sided viciousness previously unheard of in their spats. He demanded to be let out in order to lead the Brotherhood that he was certain was tearing itself apart without him. He called on her reason, her empathy, and even her love for him to convince her to open the blast door. Nothing worked. Veronica had been ambivalent, talking about letting the Brotherhood make their own decisions and respecting the Overseer’s authority and a slew of other phrases that meant she wasn’t going to do anything to help him escape. In his fury Arthur had even attempted to foment an insurrection against Amata, only to find that the Vaulties not only wouldn’t follow him against their Overseer, but also that they couldn’t even understand why they would want to.

Arthur gave up after that.

Rifle strapped tight across his back, Arthur made his way to the service stairs. With no sun or stars overhead it was impossible to mark time, but that was probably for the best. _I really don’t want to know how much time I’ve wasted down here._

Arthur keyed open the quarters he shared with Amata, and let out a sigh of relief when he saw she wasn’t home. It wasn’t that he was _afraid_ of her; he was bigger and stronger than she, but her spiteful wit cut at him. There was an anger and irritation in her that he never understood, and it had been a while ago since he tried. It only got worse when she drank. When he lived at the Citadel the distance made her contempt manageable, but now when they shared a bed every night it was difficult to ignore. More and more Arthur found himself trying to avoid his wife, which was laughably impossible in the closed Vault.

What frustrated Arthur the most about Amata was that he had no idea what he had to do in order to please her. Not start a rebellion against her, obviously, but that hadn’t even gotten any traction so he didn’t see her irritation over _that_ as being particularly justified. _What the hell was Elder Lyons thinking? I was_ fifteen _when he had me married to Amata._ Arthur scanned his memory for some frame of reference for what ‘a healthy marriage’ looked like. Elder Lyons had a wife, once, but she had either died or just not come on the quest eastward. Sarah rejected and derided every man who approached her. He’d even approached Veronica for relationship advice, but she just told him not to fall in love with women in uniform and started laughing until she gasped for air. Veronica was very strange at times.

 _Twenty-four years old and you have no idea what your woman wants._ Arthur was used to problems he could analyze and solve, but this one remained beyond him. He was faithful to her. He tried to keep up with the simple chores of laundry and cleaning around their apartment. He’d made an effort to ingratiate himself with the other Vaulties. He tried to talk with her about their marriage, but immediately found the words dry out on his tongue under her withering glower. That frustrated him more than anything.

Still, there were those brief, rare moments when his passion and her need overlapped the act of coming together was incomprehensibly wonderful. Those moments of wordless passion were always over too soon though, with Amata pulling away almost guiltily and resuming her cold demeanor. 

Arthur stowed his laser rifle in the closet, atop the duffel containing his power armor. He left their quarters and strolled towards the upper level. There were some days that if he squinted, Arthur could make himself believe that life in the Vault was _better_ than life on the surface. Moriarty’s Canteen was one of the things that helped that belief. 

When Amata locked down the Vault, she’d doomed more than just Arthur and his hopes of reuniting and saving the Brotherhood. Several of the Megaton settlers were visiting the Vault at the time, and Amata was less than sympathetic to their wanting to get back to their lives. 

“Ah, laddie,” Moriarty said, gesturing him over. “What can I get you today?”

 _Moriarty,_ Arthur decided, _understands._ He was just as trapped in the Vault as Arthur was. “Beer’ll do me fine, thanks.” 

Moriarty opened the bottle and passed it over. Arthur took and appreciative draw. There was another part of being locked in the Vault, one that Arthur himself was only beginning to appreciate. He mourned the death of his legacy. The opportunity to do what Maxons had done for decades and _lead_ the Brotherhood. Amata had done worse than imprison him: she’d prevented him from achieving his destiny, and for nothing more than to satisfy her own petty selfishness.

Arthur realized the bottle in front of him was empty, and scowled at it. _Keep this up I’ll be just as bad as she is._

“You want another one, laddie?”

Arthur nodded glumly. “Yeah. Yeah, I would.”

*

“You _sure_ you want to do that?”

Paul Hannon’s eyes flicked down to his cards, then back up to Veronica. She fought to keep her face still, but the corners of her lips quirked. “Don’t back down to her, Paul,” Susie Mack said, watching the other woman’s face. “She’s bluffing, I know it.”

It took a few weeks for Veronica to realize what felt so damned _odd_ about life in Vault 101: there wasn’t a single deck of cards in the entire place. For someone who’d spent as much time in New Vegas as she had, the oversight was downright unthinkable. It hadn’t taken too long to find enough identical card stock to make a deck of her own, and soon after that she’d drummed up enough interest among the Vaulties to get a decent poker table going.

Naturally, they started at a bit of a disadvantage. Cass would have called them rubes. 

“Nah, I got this.” Paul laid his cards on the table next to the board cards. “Two pair, eights and aces.” He grinned at Veronica. “Got you this time, Santangelo. Show ‘em.”

“I just had no idea you enjoyed maintenance duty so much,” she drawled, turning over a pair of tens that gave her three of a kind. “But really, I appreciate you taking that chore off my hands for the week.” 

Paul groaned. “Why do I listen to you, Susie?”

“You must be desperate,” Susie rolled her eyes. “Seriously, do people in the Mojave do anything other than play cards?”

“Not really. We even invented a game you could play when you didn’t have a full deck.” Veronica caught sight of the gleam in Paul’s eye. “I’ll teach you some time. For now though, I need to go find other marks. I mean, Mark. I need to find Mark. Mark…Madeuplastname. Talk to you later!”

Veronica beat a hasty retreat from the recreation lounge. The Vault wasn’t actually a bad place to live, for someone who grew up in a bunker. Recycled air, shortage of new reading materials, an utter lack of privacy...the two were really more alike than they were different. Still, Veronica found herself with more free time than she liked, and that always led to rumination.

In spite of the endless walking, constant risk of death, and the Legion’s eventual conquest of the Mojave, Veronica decided that the year or two she traveled with Clint was some of the best times of her life. Together they’d seen pretty much all the wonders the Mojave had to offer, and Cass and Arcade were the sister and brother she’d never had.

Still, despite all the nights telling stories around the campfire, Veronica couldn’t say that she really _knew_ Clint. He never talked much about his time before his unfortunate first encounter with Benny, and most of what he _did_ talk about circled around how he needed to get even with someone or other. Veronica knew it made Arcade uncomfortable, but also that he was an idealist; he thought he could love Clint so hard it’d just wash away all the pain. _Smart guy,_ Veronica thought with a sigh. _Maybe not that bright._

Clint believed that a person should never just accept a wrong done against them, and that any such wrong should be met with wildly disproportionate force. Benny tried to kill Clint, so Clint killed Benny and all the rest of the Chairmen. It was certainly a great policy for ending arguments, but pretty bad for keeping up relationships and Veronica privately wondered if that didn’t have something to do with his complete refusal to talk about anything from his past. She remembered the first time they left the Hidden Valley bunker, after she’d introduced him to her family. He’d just looked at her and drawled, _”Lady, they ain’t worth the respect you heap on ‘em. Best cut ties with them and be on your way.”_ She’d laughed it off because the Brotherhood was _family,_ and that mattered. 

The problem was that her family didn’t feel the same way. 

Veronica made her way to the elevator, directing it to the lower level. After the Vault’s lockdown trapped her inside, Moira had made the best of it and claimed a room near the reactor as a workshop. Together she and Veronica fixed whatever broke, tinkered with useless little projects and generally screwed with the odds and cast-off ends of two hundred years with of Vaulties. 

“Hey, Moira,” Veronica said, peering over the piles of scrap electronics.

“Oh!” Moira popped up from behind her bench, scattering pieces. “Oh! Hello there! I was just thinking that you and I need to talk.”

“I really don’t think Amata’s going to let you muck around with the reactor, even if you _are_ really close to understanding ghoul physiology,” Veronica replied. She made her way to her own work bench and hefted the radio sitting there. A week before it had been a collection of random electronics and scrap, before Veronica’s boredom inspired her to cobble it together. 

“Much more important than that.” Moira pointed to a set of wide sheets of paper pinned to the wall. “I’ve been looking over the blueprints for the Vault. It’s an incredible piece of technology, don’t you know, but I think I found a flaw.” She tapped one particular spot. “What if…and bear with me here…what if the water chip got damaged somehow? Like, it just broke? Or someone from the _future_ came back in time and broke it? We’d have no way to purify our water!”

Moira was, without question, brilliant. At the same time, Veronica had the sneaking suspicion she was crazier than a bag full of cazadores. “I really don’t think that’s very likely, Moira.”

“Well, maybe not. Just something I got wondering about earlier.” Moira seemed satisfied by that, and went back to puttering around her bench. Veronica sat on her stool, setting the radio to life with a desultory flick of her finger. Tinny strains of music floated from the speaker. 

What really worried Veronica was that she was beginning to wonder if Clint hadn’t been right all along. Not about killing everyone who pissed him off; that was just bad policy. But Clint never took shit from anyone, and he never got hurt by unreciprocated love. It was lonely, sure, but not expecting anything had to hurt less than expecting it and not getting it.

Veronica glanced up at Moira across the room. People respected her for her willingness to work with the Little Lamplighters and proficiency with technology, sure, but Veronica heard how they talked about her behind her back. Hell, Veronica had been less than charitable herself. “Hey Moira?”

“Yup?”

“Don’t you…” Veronica frowned. “Doesn’t it ever bug you? How other people treat you?”

“Well, sure, honey,” Moira said. “I certainly don’t appreciate when other people are rude, that’s for sure. I know people think I’m a bit quirky.”

“I’ve heard folks say that,” Veronica allowed. “But you’re always so damned cheery all the time.”

“I figure that there isn’t much I can do about other people’s attitudes.” Moira shrugged. “Some people will just be like that. But I can do my best to just be a decent person. The rest’ll come.”

Veronica sighed, and spun the dial on her radio. It let out a quiet hiss of static. “Just keep saying it, Moira. I’d like to believe it.”

*

After Amata took over, one of the first things she did with her new authority was delve into her father’s private logs from his time as Overseer. She wanted to understand how her father had become the cold, cruel man who had nearly killed her and half of the people in the Vault in the name of order.

Alphonse Almodovar had written about opening the Vault, first because he recognized that the insular culture and dwindling population were the greatest threat to the Vault’s survival. What the scouts found outside -blasted, irradiated landscapes, ants bigger than a man- frightened him enough that he vowed never to risk exposure again. It wasn’t until Amata’s mother fell ill that he even considered opening the Vault again, this time to accept James and his infant daughter Soledad.

Despite James’ best efforts, Amata’s mother passed away a few weeks later. The tone of Alphonse’s logs shifted abruptly afterwards; he was resentful at the risk he took in accepting an outsider, and for no benefit to the Vault. He expressed that frustration on a young Soledad, irrationally blaming her for his wife’s death as if one’s life came at the cost of the other’s. When James fled the Vault years later, Alphonse was absolutely livid at the betrayal and the danger James put everyone in. 

Months later Amata’s own uprising further threatened the Vault’s stability, and reading the logs laced with her father’s profound _disappointment_ in her almost stirred regret in her chest. Throughout her life, Amata had quietly assumed that her father was a cruel, heartless man. Evidence of that certainly abounded. What terrified her was just how much Alphonse’s violent reactions _made sense_ to her now.

Amata, Arthur and Veronica had returned to Vault 101 as quickly as possible following the disastrous attack on the Brotherhood meeting. She waited exactly long enough to confirm that all of the Vault Dwellers were home before ordering a full lockdown. Arthur and Veronica argued fiercely against the lockdown, first reasoning, then raging, then pleading to be allowed to fight alongside the Traditionalist resistance they were sure was clinging to survival. Both of them thought they had to save their damned Brotherhood. Amata refused, citing the assassination squad she was certain lurked just on the other side of the massive cog blast door.

In the three years since, a peaceful status quo had returned to Vault 101. The Megaton settlers and Little Lamplighters inside when she initiated the lockdown had integrated well. A few of the children had taken to wearing Vault-Tec jumpsuits, which quietly pleased Amata. The Vault had become a safe oasis again, cut off from the hostile Wasteland.

 _All’s right with the world,_ Amata thought, looking out through her office’s porthole window. In the recreation area below, Susie Mack and Moira Brown watched the children as they enjoyed their recess. _The new blood will be good for the Vault,_ she mused. _Twenty-five new people will go a long way towards staving off our population problems, at least for another few generations._

The door buzzer rang shrilly behind her, pulling Amata away from her planning. She returned to her massive half-ring desk, warming up her computer monitor and turning to the door expectantly. “Enter.”

Butch opened the door, carrying a wine bottle, two mugs and a dopy grin. “Knew I’d find you here,” he said. “C’mon, let’s celebrate. All work and no play makes Amata a dull Overseer.”

She eyed the bottle with ambivalence. Butch sat down across from her, filling the mugs carelessly and sliding one over to her. He’d come a long way since Sarah Lyons brought him home from Paradise Falls, almost a decade ago. The four years as Clover’s slave had broken him, and even now Amata could see that his jovial brashness was little more than a faded recreation of his youthful insolence. 

“What, exactly,” she said, pointedly refusing the mug, “are we supposed to be celebrating?”

“Your…” Butch trailed off, searching her expression for some sign she was making fun of him. “Your birthday, Amata.”

She raised an eyebrow at that, and checked the date on her computer monitor. “So it is.”

“I was in the cafeteria this afternoon. Got talking with Arthur, and it didn’t sound like he remembered, figured I’d do something nice,” Burch explained. “Guess if you don’t remember either it ain’t such a big thing.”

“I appreciate the gesture,” Amata said. 

“T’ you,” he said, raising his mug. “Best Overseer this Vault has ever seen.” He faltered when she didn’t move to pick up her drink. “C’mon, don’t leave me hanging here.”

“I’m not drinking.”

Butch put his mug down with a thud, leaning over the table and peering at her. Amata felt her lips thin as she endured his scrutiny. “You dyin’?”

“No.”

“’cause the only other person I knew who drank like you was my mom, and she only stopped when she died.”

 _I miss when he was just an asshole who told me I was fat,_ Amata thought. _Easier to blow him off then. When he’s actually being a friend…_ She crossed her arms. “I’m pregnant, Butch.”

“Preg…?” A smile lit up on Butch’s face. “Well hey, that’s something else to celebrate! Here!” He pushed the mug towards her, remembered himself, and took it back. “I’ll drink yours. To kids, huh?” 

Amata just shrugged. 

That probing look was back, and Amata cursed herself for not just lying to end the conversation there. “You ain’t told Arthur, have you?” he asked.

“He’ll figure it out eventually,” she muttered. _The Vault-Tec maternity jumpsuit should be a clue even he can pick up on._

“I dunno, maybe…” Butch ventured. “Maybe it’s something he’d like to know about?”

“He’ll be excited about his damned legacy,” she snapped. “I just…” She drummed her fingers on the desktop. “When we were young, did you ever talk with your friends about being a parent?”

“You kiddin’? Having babies is something only old people gotta worry about.” He cleared his throat. “Uh. No offence.”

Amata restrained the urge to roll her eyes. “I remember Soledad and I would talk sometimes about what it would be like. To be a mother. Now? I have a Vault to run. I’m not interested in a baby and I _really_ want a drink. Put the damn bottle away.”

Butch watched her, but stowed the bottle out of sight under his chair. “Man, I want to believe you, Amata, I really do. But I don’t think you’re bein’ straight with me.”

“Really now.”

“Really. I think maybe you bein’ preggers got you thinkin’, gave you some perspective.” Butch shrugged. “Get wondering about your pop, thinking about how he balanced having a kid and runnin’ the Vault.”

 _You are not half as dumb as you want people to think,_ Amata thought scornfully. “My father made some difficult decisions. They weren’t easy decisions or popular, but he did what he had to.”

“Can’t help but think Amata ten years ago would have been fuckin’ terrified to hear you say that.”

Amata’s lip curled, and she snarled: “Get out of my sight, Louis.” 

Butch went pale at the name, and Amata stilled her expression as he rose to leave. _This baby’s as much your damn fault as anyone’s. Your idiot attempt on Jackson’s life landed you with the damned slavers, and I couldn’t just leave you there, could I? So I agreed to marry Arthur and here we are. It wasn’t easy or popular, but I did what I had to do._

*

The door chimed for a third time, and Arthur dragged himself up to consciousness. “God, what? What?” The chime rang out again, and Arthur realized the door could not answer him on its own. He stumbled off of the couch and staggered to the door, slapping the panel to open it. Veronica stood in the doorway, scowling. “What have you been doing, taking a nap? It’s like, one in the afternoon.”

“Or whatever passes for afternoon down here,” Arthur groused. 

Veronica peered at him closely. “You good to talk?”

 _A hangover’s just pain to work through._ “Yeah. What do you need?”

“Come with me.” Veronica furtively scanned the corridor, then pulled him out. Moving quickly she grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the lift. When the doors parted for them she motioned him inside, and spoke when the door closed again. “So a little while back I built a radio. I cracked the Brotherhood encryptions, so I’d wile away the afternoon listening to their radio chatter, thinking wistfully of the good old days, regretting my life choices, that sort of thing.” They reached the bottommost level of the Vault, and Veronica led the way to a cluttered workshop. 

“I don’t think your hobby’s any better than mine.”

“Ha. Ha. That’s funny, you’re really funny.” Veronica did not seem to actually think it was funny. “Seriously though, shut up and listen. I turned the radio on about twenty minutes ago and this is what I got.” 

She turned the radio on, and a quick squawk of static faded into Sarah Lyon’s voice. “ _This is Elder Lyons issuing a code black distress from the Citadel. We are under…_ ” a sharp intake of breath; she was in pain, Arthur realized. “ _We’re under attack. Stepford and someone I don’t know. They’re augmented somehow. They’re strong, and fast. Could be some new sort of Enclave infiltrator. Prepare your garrisons for attack._ Do not _attempt a rescue. As far as I know I’m the only one left alive…the Citadel is lost to us. … This is Elder Lyons issuing a code black…_ ”

The note of fear in Sarah’s voice did more to unsettle him than anything else he’d heard in his life. Sarah had always been the confident center of his life. If _she_ was scared… “It’s repeating automatically. She could be dead already.”

Veronica nodded. “Yup.”

Sarah’s message was clear. Code black was only used in scenarios of total loss, where any attempt at recovery would condemn good paladins to die for little if any potential gain. “But she could be alive.”

“I came to much the same conclusion.”

Arthur set his jaw. He couldn’t imagine Roger Maxson choosing to hide in the safety of a Vault. “To hell with her warning. We need to get out there.”

“Great! So now that we’re on the same page, we need to figure out how exactly.” Veronica gestured to the far wall, covered in blue sheets of paper. “Moira’s fixation on Vault-Tec really helped out. If I can get to the main door, I think I see how to crack the mechanism.”

“But Amata’s Overseer codes…”

“Won’t matter if I can physically open the door. No computers involved.” Veronica frowned. “Problem is though, I can only get to the mechanisms from the inside. Once we’re out, and that door closes behind us…that’s it. And I don’t think Amata’s going to let us back in.”

“No, I think she’ll probably be pretty pissed off.” Arthur nodded. “How long will it take you?”

“Assuming no one walks in and I have to pretend that I’m _not_ trying to break out, about half an hour.”

“I’ll meet you at the front door. Figure two hours walk to get to the Citadel from here…we might be able to get there in time to do some good.” Arthur turned and left at a quick jog without waiting to hear her response. The lift took him back to his quarters and he opened the closet. His power armor was still in the duffel bag he kept it in, and his laser rifle resting on top of it. He slapped a microfusion cell into the rifle and eyed the charge: still good. 

“It’ll be easier to get the armor on with Veronica’s help,” he muttered, shouldering the bag. Arthur stood awkwardly in the bedroom, trying to think of how he could disguise the rifle as well. He ended up stashing it in Amata’s laundry bag.

 _I ought to leave her a note,_ he realized. _She’ll be…well, not worried, but..._ He found a pen and pad, and sat on the bed as he wrote. _Dear Amata, I’m sorry you had to find out like this. By now…_ His pen stopped as he stared at the words. “Damn,” Arthur said. “She deserves better than a note.”

Arthur took to his feet again, moving with an energy and purpose he didn’t think he’d ever had. She’d notice the duffel bag, he knew. She’d _definitely_ notice her laundry bag. He’d have to risk it; now was the time to do what was _right._

He set out to find her. Knowing his wife she’d have worked straight through the normal lunch time, which would mean she was probably in the cafeteria now. He set out at a trot. He had no idea what he’d say, but he knew he was going to say something and it felt strange and wonderful.

Amata was at her usual spot, perched on a stool at the cafeteria’s counter. She saw Arthur coming, and her face creased with its accustomed scowl. “What are you doing with my laundry bag?”

He took a stool next to hers. “I’m going to say some things. Just…listen to me. Please.” Amata’s scowl remained in place, but she nodded. “When I was younger, I fantasized about what it would be to lead the Brotherhood. You know? Having a hundred paladins at my beck and call, vanquishing evil and basking in honor and all that.” He shook his head. “Nice dreams, but childish, and I’ve been hanging on to them for far too long. I never earned that legacy. Hell, I don’t think I’ve earned much at all.” He met Amata’s eye. “I certainly haven’t earned your respect, or your love. And I’m sorry for that.”

“Ours wasn’t ever…” Amata chose her words with care. “Our marriage wasn’t about love.”

“I know, and I’m starting to realize what that must have meant for you.” Arthur offered her his hand, and Amata took it. “I wanted to tell you straight. There’s a distress signal going out from the Citadel, right now. They’re under attack, and Veronica and I are going to help.”

She withdrew her hand. “Like hell you’re opening that door.”

“We will.”

“I could have security detain you and Veronica both right now,” Amata snapped.

“They wouldn’t stop me.”

“I’m choosing to believe that you didn’t just threaten to injure my peace officers,” Amata said lowly. She pinched the bridge of her nose, and he could see her thinking through a different approach. “Arthur, listen to me. If you leave here, _do not_ delude yourself into believing that I will let you back in. Do you understand? You’re going out to fight some threat, and I can’t risk letting that threat endanger the Vault. Stay. I need you to be here. Your _family_ needs you here.”

“And the Brotherhood needs me out there.”

“Wonderful time for you to finally start thinking about being a man.” Amata set her jaw. “All right then. To hell with your damned legacy.” She rose, and Arthur stood as well. “I’m sure Veronica’s busily breaking the door locks right now, isn’t she? Better I just let you out before she does any permanent damage.”

Arthur and Amata made their way to the entrance chamber in a frosty silence. They entered to find Veronica whistling innocently to herself, already clad in her maroon power armor. “Answer on thing for me,” Amata demanded as she took up position behind the door console. “Him, I get. All tied up in glory and whatever else. What about you? Why would you waste your life for people who literally want you dead?”

Veronica shot Arthur an irritated look, but Amata was already working on the panel and she couldn’t argue with results. “Because even if they are assholes who want to put me on trial for heresy…they’re family. And even if they never really loved me back, when they’re in danger? Family always comes first.”

Amata stared hard at her for a long moment, then nodded. “For what it’s worth, good luck.” The massive cog door rolled aside, allowing a gust of dry air inside. Amata wrinkled her nose as it washed over her. Veronica stepped over the threshold and down the rude stone tunnel to the surface. Arthur followed a few steps before turning back to look to Amata. “Goodbye,” she said, and cycled the door closed behind him.

*

From her hiding spot several thousand feet out, Veronica studied the Citadel warily. There was no sound of combat, and really no sound at all. “I don’t see anybody.”

“Not Stepford, and none of the sentries who should be on the wall.” Arthur growled. “I want to get my hands on that man. I called him _brother,_ and he betrays us like this? If this is an Enclave counterattack, they’re much more patient and devious than we gave them credit for.”

“Yeah, cunning bunch of eighty year olds. I think you and I must have experienced very different versions of the Enclave,” Veronica muttered. “So how are we going to get in? We have to assume that Stepford and his buddy have the front door covered.”

“Right over…” Arthur scanned the broken ground, and grinned. “Yeah. Right over there.” He pointed to a manhole cover some hundred feet away, almost hidden under debris. “One of the escape tunnels. Elder Lyons made me memorize the path and end points of each one.”

They made their way quickly to the manhole. The servos in Arthur’s armor whined as he hefted away the chunk of concrete blocking it and pried the cover itself free. Veronica peered into darkness below uncertainly, but shrugged. “Well, you only die once.” She swung her legs into the hole and dropped.

“There’s a ladder,” Arthur suggested as she landed with a crash twenty feet below. 

“I like making gravity do the work. Come on.” Arthur took the slow way, climbing down the ladder and unslinging his laser rifle from his back. “Okay, I figure we get in, find whatever survivors we can and get the hell back out. No need to face Stepford and his half-deathclaw-or-whatever friend.”

Arthur shook his head. “To hell with that. We leave them be, they’ll attack the other garrisons. We need to put them down, now. Before they can get away.”

“It’s not _them_ getting away I’m worried about!” Veronica followed him down the long tunnel. It emptied into an unassuming supply room. “We don’t know what they’re packing, but they’re dangerous as hell. Let’s find Sarah and get out.”

Arthur opened the closet door and looked out. “That’s a good plan. We’ll split up; you try and find Sarah, I’ll deal with Stepford.”

“That’s not what I…Arthur!” He was already gone, slipping down the hall and around the corner. “ _Idiot,_ ” Veronica hissed. She moved to follow him, but stopped herself. _This is a rescue. In and out, fast as possible. Avoid contact._ She made her way down the hall in the opposite direction. _Now, if I was desperately hiding for my life, where would I go?_ She tried to orient herself, and saw a wall sign declaring that she stood in the A-Ring. She pushed open the nearest door and peeked inside, and stifled a gasp at what she saw.

Half a dozen scribes lay dead among the ruined remains of their books and computers. Scorch blasts on the walls and bodies told her the grim story. _Looks like some of them tried to run. Didn’t make it very far, though. For pity’s sake, these are scribes! They don’t fight!_ She crouched among the devastation. _They destroyed the computers, too. So much knowledge, just…gone._

A sudden noise caught her attention: a thin, reedy wail. _Unless Stepford brought a baby, that sounds like a survivor._ Veronica pushed off and raced through the door, following the sound towards the bailey. She burst through the double doors, looking about wildly for the sound and caught sight of a mass huddled against the sandbags that marked the shooting range’s firing line.

“Hey,” she whispered, loud as she dared. “I’m here to help.” Veronica crossed the distance between them and touched the other woman’s shoulder. Her head lolled to the side lifelessly at the motion, and Veronica grimaced. _Melissa Watkins? I didn’t even know she was…and now she’s…_ She lifted the squalling infant from Melissa’s unresponsive arms. “All right, kid. You’re gonna be all right, just need-”

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

Veronica’s eyes flew open, and she felt her blood chill. She turned, slowly, to see Stepford standing a few dozen feet away. He was dressed in an off-duty shirt and pants, and if not for the spray of blood across his front and on his hands, she might almost have taken him for being out for an evening stroll. 

“Hold on, kid. This’ll only take a few minutes.” Veronica placed the infant down next to Melissa’s body and walked towards Stepford. He didn’t look that big, compared to Veronica and her power armor. Arms open to indicate the whole of the Citadel, she asked: “Did you do this?”

“If you’re talking about attack as a whole, then I covered the bailey and A-Ring. Armitage handled B-Ring and operations.” Stepford cocked his head to the side. “If you’re referring specifically to Knight Watkins, then yes ma’am.” 

“Well.” Veronica flexed her fingers, setting the power fist mechanisms whirring. “In that case: this is for her.”

She cleared the distance to Stepford in an instant, right fist drawn back. With a bellow she swung with all her armor’s strength and weight, catching Stepford on the cheek. He reeled, and an instant later the hydraulic jack mounted on the back of her fist snapped forward. The second blow sent him tumbling to the ground. 

“Quite a hit, ma’am,” Stepford said, sounding decidedly unconcerned. He rose to his feet, and as he turned to face her Veronica could see his skin had torn away where she had struck him, revealing cold, bloodless metal and a luminous green eye. Stepford touched the wound tentatively, and sighed. “I wish you hadn’t done that.”

“You’re a Goddamn _robot?_ ” Veronica gaped.

“I really do prefer the term ‘android,’ ma’am,” Stepford replied. “’Robot’ is just so…dehumanizing.”

Veronica leapt after him, but this time Stepford declined to allow her to strike him; swatting away each swing. He jabbed at her helmet, setting Veronica’s ears ringing. 

“It’s nothing personal, ma’am.” He grabbed hold of the sides of the helmet, metal deforming under his grip, and wrenched it clear off. “Personally speaking, I think Lyons Doctrine and other progressive elements of the Brotherhood were the Wasteland’s best bet for development and improvement.”

With a roar, Veronica slammed a hammer blow into Stepford’s gut. He didn’t seem to notice, and absent-mindedly shattered the knee of her armor with a kick. Veronica fell with a cry, trying to scramble back. _I would love to get a hold of whoever designed him,_ she thought viciously. _First to figure out how they did it, then to kill the son of a bitch._

Stepford followed unhurriedly, and stomped down on her chest. Veronica screamed at that, a wave of pain blasting through her as the armor caved. _That’s ribs. Those are broken ribs._ “Directives are clear, though. Nothing the Keystone might find useful can be left, and that means eliminating any Brotherhood structure that they might co-opt.”

 _Think!_ Veronica thought desperately. _Think! He’s fast, he’s durable, he’s strong…all I’ve got is a ruined suit of power armor, it’s breeched, power’s on the fritz…_ She looked down at her armor’s shattered chest piece. _That’s the microfusion regulator. Maybe…_ She crawled away on her back, trying to put as much distance between the two of them as possible.

“This would be a lot easier for you if you’d stop resisting, ma’am.” Stepford sounded honestly regretful. _Or he’s programmed to sound that way._ “I’m trying to be quick about it, for your sake.”

Veronica rolled herself behind one of the ruined cars the Brotherhood used for target practice backstops. “Even easier if you just walked away!” she grunted. She craned her neck down to try and see into the damaged chest piece. Her fingers ran over the jagged shards of armor, working more by touch than sight. _This isn’t going to be perfect. Need to break the regulator in just the right way…ceramic portions of the armor won’t conduct, and hopefully the padding between me and the armor isn’t compromised…!_

“All right, ma’am.” Stepford rounded the side of the car, looking down at Veronica. “No more running.”

“I want you to know,” Veronica said through pained gasps. “That when I get back on my feet, I am going to disassemble you to see how you work.”

“If you say so, ma’am.” Stepford seized her ruined armor and _screeched_ as the entirety of the armor’s energy reserve, enough to power it for a hundred years, exploded through him in an instant.

Veronica lay panting for a moment, eyes dazzled by the massive burst of electricity. _That was…wow. I’m alive. Go me._ Somewhere nearby, the baby was howling again.

“01101111 01110110 01100101 01110010 01101100 01101111 01100001 01100100,” Stepford stuttered, smoke rising from his fried chassis. “01110011 01111001 01110011 01110100 01100101 01101101 00100000 01100110 01100001 01101001 01101100 01110101 01110010 01100101.”

“Same to you, asshole,” Veronica breathed. Its energy spent, her armor was completely inert and little more than an articulated coffin. _Come on. Move!_ Veronica struggled to shift her weight to crawl towards the baby’s cry, but the suit was too heavy for any coordinated motion. The best she could manage was to shift her weight to the right, and fell to her side with a brief scream. _Ribs! Still broken!_ “Hang in there, baby Watkins. I’m coming…I’m…”

Bone ground against bone in her side, and the wave of pain dragged Veronica under.

*

Sarah held her breath as footsteps receded down the hall.

She uncurled from her hiding place, stashed away under a desk in the laboratory. Hours had passed since Stepford and Armitage first attacked, and in that time her attempts at both counter-attack and escape had been equally futile. The two of them had worked fast, splitting up and scouring the Citadel. Sarah had arrived in time to see the Lyon’s Pride making their last stand against Armitage; he hadn’t been armed, and they hadn’t stood a chance. Ceramic plating and steel cracked and shattered against his blows. 

Clutching her shattered arm to her side, Sarah rose to her feet. With one of them just passed, she had a decent chance of getting away. At least, a better chance. She left the laboratory, moving away from the footsteps and towards one of the access tunnels that led out of the Citadel.

 _Is this what Jackson’s last minutes were like? Hunted like a dog, run to ground and slaughtered?_ Sarah and the Pride claimed Jackson’s Sanctuary for the Brotherhood, after the super mutants finished with him. She’d followed the trail of mutant corpses to his gruesome last stand and felt the smug satisfaction of seeing her enemy brought so brutally low. _Who’s going to come gloat over my carcass?_

Footsteps sounded ahead, and Sarah froze. _No. Dammit, no._ She looked about frantically, searching for a place to hide. The best she could see was the shallow recess of a doorway, and she dove for it. _No way he misses me when he passes. Going to have to fight._ With her good hand, she reached into her robe’s pockets and retrieved a single plasma grenade. _Some people thought stashing weapons in my quarters was paranoid. Some people are also dead._

The footsteps were close now, no more than ten feet away. _Now or never,_ Sarah thought grimly. With quick motions she primed the grenade and tossed it towards the footsteps, fumbling to draw her laser pistol before the explosion hit. She leaned around the corner, snapping off three shots before she realized what she was shooting at.

“Dammit, Sarah, stop!”

“Arthur? What are you…?” Arthur hauled himself to his feet, his armor smoking where the plasma seared away the plating. “Did I not teach you what code black means?” Sarah demanded.

“I thought you’d need-” he started.

“I don’t _care._ You were supposed to stay safe!” She left her cover, shoving him back the way he came. “They’ll have heard. We need to get clear.”

“Little chance of that, Elder Lyons.”

Armitage stood at the end of the hall, glowering at them. Sarah shifted, putting herself between him and Arthur. “Run,” she hissed.

“You’re blocking my shot,” Arthur muttered back.

“Don’t bother,” Armitage growled. “Just be good little meatbags and save me the damned trouble.”

Arthur leaned past Sarah, leveling his rifle and squeezing off a shot at Armitage, who suddenly _wasn’t there_ any more. He appeared next to Arthur, batting the weapon from his hand, slamming his forehead into the younger man’s armored faceplate and sending Arthur to the floor with a crash. Sarah brought her laser pistol up awkwardly in her left hand, but Armitage caught her wrist and plucked the gun from her grasp.

“So arrogant. What the hell are you proud of?” He gripped her first finger and wrenched it back until she felt a _snap._ “Why don’t you just give up?”

“Go to-” Arthur started. Armitage lashed out, kicking him hard enough to cave in his power armor’s helmet and still his movement. 

“No!” Sarah tried to pull away, to reach Arthur, but Armitage held her fast. With excruciating deliberateness he took hold of her middle finger, and Sarah struggled not to scream as he bent it back to her wrist. 

“I do not understand you,” Armitage intoned. “Why are you fighting at all?”

“What do you _want?_ ” Sarah demanded.

“What do I want?” Armitage laughed. “I want you hurry up and _die_ so that I can complete this directive and go home.” He let Sarah drop. “Do you have any idea how hideous this Wasteland of yours is? It’s filthy and ruined and it _reeks._ ” 

_Keep talking, you son of a bitch,_ Sarah though, crawling to Arthur. _Please be all right._

“You see our machine that creates clean water, and you think that’s impressive? Honestly?” Armitage watched her try to rouse Arthur. “You play amongst the debris of the Old World, and you call yourselves its masters? It’s pathetic. You have no idea what it is to thrive in this world. You lack the frame of reference.” He reached down, seizing Sarah’s throat and hauling her upright. “I just want to go home. I just want out of this wretched Wasteland.”

 _Run, Arthur,_ Sarah thought desperately, as Armitage’s grip began to crush her neck and the world turned to black. 

“ _Armitage!_ ”

A blast of azure light filled the air, and his grip loosened. Sarah fell away, choking. Armitage stood over her, an expression of utter bewilderment on his face. Another blast struck him, splashing vivid blue energy through his body. Armitage collapsed with a loud clang.

A figure stood further down the hall, bizarre silver weapon still pointed at Armitage’s still figure. She was tall and resolute in her duster. _Who…_

“I’m sorry, Armitage. I’ll make sure your hard drive gets back to the Institute.” The woman crouched next to Sarah, feeling at her wounds. “Sarah? Sarah Lyons? Your neck…my God.” She tapped the device strapped to her arm. “Zeta from Soledad. I need immediate transit for all life signs at my location. Tell Elliot I need him in the infirmary _right now_ …!”

_Oh my God. I’m dead. I’m dead and the Wanderer had come to take me to Heaven._

*

_This is stupid._

Amata stared at the massive cog door. They weren’t coming back. Even if they did, she couldn’t let them in. It was a waste of time for her to stand there, waiting for Arthur to return. 

Amata had been standing there for seven hours.

 _He left. Move on. There’s a Vault to manage._ Still she stood there and waited.

“Amata!”

“I’m busy,” Amata muttered, without turning around. 

“No, seriously,” Paul stood behind her, nervous energy keeping him bouncing foot to foot. “The clinic. We need you down there, now.”

 _Fine._ Amata followed him down the metal corridors. She could hear voices raised in excitement, and quickened her pace. _What the hell is going on down there?_

She burst into the clinic, pushing through the mess of people crowding the room. Arthur, Veronica, and Sarah Goddamn Lyons laid out on a cots, bruised and beaten. Susie Mack moved between the beds, examining each in turn. “They got put through a damn grinder…!” she muttered.

“They’ll be all right,” a stranger in a beaten Wasteland longcoat said. “Zeta’s healing arches made sure of that. They’re just going to need time to recover.”

 _It can’t be._ Amata gaped. _Soledad…?_

Soledad looked up, seeing Amata for the first time. “I’m sorry. I’ll…I’ll go.”

 _The last thing I said to her was to leave and never come back. Same damned thing I told Arthur. God, I’m so sick of sending people away._ “No!” Amata said. “No, please…thank you for bringing them back.” She frowned. “How did you bring them back?”

“I have ways.”

“But how…I mean…” Amata shook her head. “No. I don’t care. Susie? How are they?”

Susie crouched over Veronica, loosening the straps on her power armor. “The autodoc says bruises, concussions, torn muscles, but all on the mend already, as if the injuries happened days ago. What the hell happened to them?”

“It seems the Institute is turning its attention south,” Soledad said. At Amata’s confused look, she clarified. “From the New England Commonwealth. Fancy themselves some kind of technocratic utopia. I warned them to stay clear of the Capital Wasteland. Seems they didn’t take me seriously.” She scowled. “I’ll have to reiterate my point to them.” 

“Let me up,” Veronica said, struggling to rise from her cot. “Is Sarah all right? Baby Watkins…?”

“They’re fine,” Soledad said, putting a hand on the other woman’s shoulder and easing her back down. “They’re all right. Take it easy.”

 _She’s alive. Soledad’s alive._ “Soledad…can we talk?”

“If you want, Overseer.” Soledad followed Amata out of the clinic, down the hall towards her quarters. It was a mess with Arthur’s breakfast dishes still on the kitchen table. Amata led her to the bedroom without thinking, falling into childhood habits.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Soledad said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I know you didn’t want me to come back. I just wanted to get them to safety back on the surface, and Arthur kept muttering about the Vault. And that you and he are married?”

“You’re _alive._ ”

Soledad raised an eyebrow at the non-sequitur. “Well obviously.”

“Just…” Amata sat on the bed next to her. “After we reopened the Vault, after Jackson, I sent teams out to look for you. We heard rumors and a damned cult founded in your name but we never found you and I thought I’d sent you out into the Wasteland to _die._ Where have you _been?_ ”

“Here and there. Spent some time in China.” Amata didn’t realize she was crying until Soledad sat down next to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry,” Soledad said. “Everything got to be…it got to be too much. I should have found a way to tell you. I’ve missed you.”

“You’re sorry?” Amata snapped. “I put people at risk in that hellhole looking for you, and you’re sorry.”

Soledad pulled away. “Yeah. I am.”

“I’m glad you’re alive, I’m glad you’re back, but God _damn._ Everything that’s happened in the past fourteen years and you’ve been gallivanting around _Asia?_ I _needed_ you. Here, at home.”

“You know, I actually think I still miss you,” Soledad replied quietly. 

“I have to think about the Vault, Soledad.” Amata crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m the Overseer.”

“You can be Overseer and still be human.”

“No, I can’t,” Amata shot back. “Those are _incompatible_ roles. My father understood that, and he did what he needed to in order to maintain order in the Vault. Losing that means losing _everything_ down here. So yes, keeping that order is more important than being a human. Than being a mother.”

That hung in the air between them. Amata set her jaw, refusing to look at Soledad. _Just cannot keep your mouth shut, can you? Don’t expect pity, you don’t have time for it._ Eventually, Soledad spoke. “That’s a lot to carry.” Amata declined to answer and Soledad repositioned herself, sitting cross-legged on the bed in an echo of the pose she took when she was much younger. “Look, I’ve been there. Knowing the world isn’t going to turn without you, it’s _hard._ ” 

Amata nodded in agreement. “It’s the sacrifice every Overseer has made.”

“There has to be space for yourself, or else there’ll be nothing left. Your dad was consumed by the position, and look what happened to him.”

“My father was a good Overseer,” Amata said. “I just couldn’t see past the harshness of his methods to realize it at the time.”

“He killed our friends to maintain that order. He had you beaten.”

“Yes,” Amata said, finally turning to face Soledad. “And you know what? I understand why now. God help me, I understand why, and I think if I had to I’d do the same damned thing.”

Soledad bit her lip, thinking. “I haven’t just been to China,” she said eventually. “Bangalore and Madrid and one _astonishingly_ bad weekend in Perth. In each of those places, the culture and community was sculpted by the people in charge. People who have separated themselves from their humanity create broken, angry societies.”

“We’re better than that.”

“Are we?” Soledad opened her hands, trying to grasp a concept. “We have a way of doing things here in the Vault, don’t we? You’re the Overseer because we’ve always had an Overseer. But I don’t think that the way things have been is the way they always have to be.”

Amata frowned. “Things are the way they are for a reason.”

“Yes, sure, but maybe we need to find new reasons.” Soledad smiled. “Amata, you can’t even _imagine._ Marie and I have traveled to so many different places in the world. There’s so, so much beyond these walls.”

“Who’s Marie?” Amata asked. 

“She’s my daughter,” Soledad said with a grin. “Old enough now that _she_ thinks she should be allowed to start visiting the Wasteland on her own. I’m not so sure myself yet.”

“’Marie?’ We always talked about naming our children after our own parents,” Amata said.

“Well, I didn’t exactly name her myself.” At Amata’s raised eyebrow, Soledad shrugged. “It’s a long story.”

“What’s it like? Raising a child?”

“Challenging. Impossible. Entirely worth it.”

“How do you…” Amata fumbled for words. “I’m going to be someone’s mom, Soledad. I can’t do this. I have no idea how. I’m not the kind of person who should be a mother.”

Soledad scooted closer, taking Amata’s hands in her own. “Then be that kind of person. Nobody knows what they’re doing, at first. But you’ll learn. Don’t give up on yourself.”

There was a kindness to Soledad’s words that Amata hadn’t heard for a very long time; the Overseer had to remain separate enough from the Vault residents that the most she could tolerate was polite familiarity. She held Soledad’s hand, and basked in the comfort of her friend’s presence. “I think,” she said thickly, “that I would very much like to meet Marie.”

“You will. Soon.” Soledad said. “We have a few more things to make sure are in order, upstairs. I need to have a conversation with the Institute about what they tried to do here today, and there’s a mess in the ‘Burgh that I should have taken care of years ago. But things are going to be different soon, I promise. You can’t _see_ it all from down here, Amata. The whole beautiful world, and everything we can do to make it better. Underground, the best we can do is hide away. Look to the stars, Amata.”

*

_And so it was that the Capital Wasteland, cruel and inhospitable place that it was, gained something of a respite. A respite, because the Lone Wanderer’s words promised change rather than salvation. That would be something the people of the Wasteland would have to find on their own._

_The Maxson legacy preoccupied Arthur throughout his life. He saw the strife between Traditional and Iconoclast, and Eastern and Mojave as his own failings of leadership, never realizing that some events are beyond any one man’s ability to prevent…even a Maxson. However, his concerns changed in tenor after he held his son for the first time. Arthur came to realize that the Maxson legacy had less to do with his own personal triumphs and more to do with the success and security of the Brotherhood and those who pledged themselves to it. Deciding that he would not leave a divided Brotherhood for his son, Arthur reunited the remaining paladins and scribes from around the Capital Wasteland and argued for the reformation of the Brotherhood’s mandate: that the technology they had been charged to preserve was a product of civilization, and that the best way to ensure that the knowledge of the Old World survived was to use it to build a new civilization. He woke before the sunrise every day for the rest of his life, intent on building that better world for his son._

_In the aftermath of the attack on the Citadel Veronica searched for Melissa Watkins’ husband in the hopes of returning his child to him, only to find him among the dead. She chose to care for the infant herself and named the girl Cassidy, after a friend long departed. Though Veronica had never thought of herself as the mothering type, she took to her new role with love and earnest determination. After all, Melissa had been family, so her daughter was family too. Veronica decided that Clint had been wrong, all those years before: even if they wronged her, family were the people you never gave up on, for their sake if not your own. So through debate, argument, and at least one fistfight Veronica sought to open the attitudes of her brothers and sisters. On the day the Chapter named her Head Scribe, Veronica allowed herself a moment of victory. She had changed her family, and for the better._

_Though she traveled the Capital Wasteland in her later years, Amata’s heart never left Vault 101. Even when Arthur and her son quested southward to expand the Brotherhood’s influence into Virginia and the Southeast Commonwealth, she stayed in the Capital Wasteland. The region recovered under her stewardship, if only a little, and when the Keystone arrived in force from across Maryland she was ready for them…with a kind word and an open hand. Many years after her passing, Amata’s actions on that day were described as laying the foundation of the first true, lasting democracy in the east. No one ever knew that her true goal, even as she worked and fought to build that country, was to ensure the safety of Vault 101. Because the Vault always came first. Always. And through all the trials that came, Vault 101 remained secure, buried deep in the Earth._

_Sarah languished if Vault 101’s clinic for more than a week after the Citadel attack. She was furious at Veronica for endangering Arthur’s life and her own, but rather than apologize Veronica told her she’d do it again in a heartbeat because she had no idea how to raise a child and needed Sarah’s help. Spending some time together to raise baby Cassidy became spending all of their time together, and eventually Sarah realized the futility of denying her affection for her irreverent partner. Even the most Traditional among the Brotherhood declined to argue with Elder Lyons, and over the next several years Sarah’s leadership strengthened both the Brotherhood and the Capital Wasteland as a whole. She watched with pride as Arthur grew past his adolescent obsession with glory and flourished as a thoughtful man, and many years later when he called for volunteers to venture south Sarah, Veronica and young Cassidy were the first at his side._

_If Sarah remembered the atrocity she forced on Ella -Bittercup- she never sought redemption._

_All those things happened much later, however. Just a few short years after Veronica sat by Sarah’s side through the night and Amata named her son after both her departed father and her husband’s legacy, Soledad called out to them from the dark of space. It was a message of change, but not the change she expected. Quite inadvertently, the Lone Wanderer invited them to witness something new and unexpected: a choice._

_A very human choice._


End file.
